Reasonable Expectation
by JubileeKnight
Summary: Six months following the Battle of Beruna, the new kings and queens continue to hunt down the remnants of the White Witch's followers and restore to Narnia what was lost or buried during her rule. The Pevensies must sharpen both their weapons and their wits, and Edmund must learn and come to terms with what happened at the Stone Table.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Characters and situations are not mine. They belong to C.S. Lewis's estate. I know that others have others have created their versions of the Narnian calendar. My version of it is partially based on the creation of Narnia seeming to occur in spring and not winter. The Narnian months do not directly correspond with any of ours. I should note that I imagine Aslan's return having occurred on the first day of spring and the first day of the year (1 Fledgling) and that this roughly corresponds to late March on Earth. The months as such are: Fledgling, Frostfree, Sunshower, Greenroof (canon), Sunhigh, Ripening, Leafgold, Gathering, Hoarfrost, Brightstar, Stillbound, and Nesting. Thus, the month of Ripening would cover mid-August to late September, and Christmas occurs on 5 Brightstar. The battle at the Ford of Beruna took place on 3 Fledgling. There isn't really anything very scientific about any of this other than my own preference. This story follows "Damascus Road" and "His Throne Is Upholden" and references incidents in those stories, but can be understood on its own. Thornbut's history can be found in meldahlie's "This is No Thaw" which I highly recommend.

 **Reasonable Expectation**

 **Chapter One**

 _Cair Paravel, Late Ripening, NT 1000_

"First position!"

Edmund raised his sword obediently at the arms master's order. Dallin Glasswater clucked his tongue and shook his head. "A little straighter, your majesty. Your swordpoint wishes to wobble." Edmund adjusted his grip to steady the wooden blade, and Dallin squinted at it. "Nearly, your majesty, very good."

Despite the encouraging words, the arms master reached around to cover Edmund's hands with his own and then move them into places just slightly off from where Edmund had had them. "Better," said Dallin.

Across from Edmund, Peter adjusted his grip without prompting, drawing a silent but approving nod from their instructor.

"Second position!"

It wasn't as if they'd never fought before, Edmund thought, shifting to bring his practice sword around to the next position. Since their trial by fire at the Fords of Beruna, both Peter and Edmund had battled remnants of the Witch's followers across Narnia. Peter had even faced an attempted assassination, although the royal guard had made short work of the high king's attacker. Still Dallin remained adamant that, however favored by Aslan the young sovereigns might be, they must learn to wield their weapons by muscle memory and sound tactical knowledge in addition to instinct and desperation.

If Edmund hadn't already suspected that last was aimed at him, he would have been certain when Dallin added, "It's my job to train your majesties well enough to keep you from finding a knife in your gut. If I should fail to do my best, I'd be rightly judged a traitor."

A moment of awkwardness followed the last word as if Dallin were wishing to call it back. Peter wore an overly serious expression, probably torn between ignoring the gaffe and defending his little brother's honor. Edmund almost rolled his eyes. It wasn't as if they could keep him from ever hearing the word. Finally, Peter relaxed. "If sheer exhaustion is a measure of how well you are doing your job, captain," said the high king. "We will never question your loyalty."

Dallin laughed, and so did Peter and Edmund, and the tension was broken.

Peter was good at that. Adults, even back in England, had always liked him, and even the skeptical ambassadors who visited Cair Paravel generally treated him as a man and a king rather than a thirteen-year-old boy. Edmund tried to focus his attention on moving seamlessly through the first four positions rather than be jealous of this. Peter had earned the respect they showed him, after all, just as he deserved to win the subsequent sparring match that left Edmund on his back on the floor of the training grounds.

"All right, Ed?" Peter reached a hand to pull him up, and Edmund took it.

"All right," said Edmund, setting his feet and chin for the next engagement.

"Well struck, your majesty," said Dallin to Peter. "And chivalrously done. That will conclude our lesson for the morning."

Edmund relaxed his stance, trying to mask his disappointment. He would have liked to end the lesson on a better note than getting trounced by Peter. Again.

He must not have hidden his frustration as well as he thought. Peter glanced at him and then at Dallin. "Surely, we've time for one more match?" he asked.

Dallin raised a bushy eyebrow. "I have seen your majesties' schedules. If you believe you've time to spar once more, it is not my place to gainsay."

Peter grinned. "I promise that if we're late, I shall assure the general that the responsibility is mine," he said. He nodded to Edmund. "Ed?"

Edmund raised his sword again with a faint smile. Peter was doing that more and more. Sallowpad had been drilling them on etiquette and speech with the assistance of Susan, and after the elder of their sisters, Peter was the best at slipping into the Narnian patterns of speech. He barely seemed to think about it, any more than he needed to exert himself to run Edmund - or even some of their older and more experienced sparring partners - around the training ring.

It wasn't Peter's _fault_ that everything came more easily to him, that he was taller and stronger. He was encouraging even when he won, and most of the time, Edmund didn't even think he was being patronizing about it these days (had he ever been? It was hard to say. Edmund's judgments of his siblings had been challenged quite a bit in the past six months). Still, Edmund would have liked to share a portion of his brother's ability.

He couldn't even blame it on the swords. They practiced with wooden blades, though ones crafted to mimic as much as possible the weapons they carried into battle. Edmund's current short sword and the blade Peter had named Rhindon hung on the wall during every practice. Edmund did not begrudge his brother the superior weapon. He knew well why Peter had been gifted such a blade and he had not, and he was not so mean as to resent something that was his own fault (not _now_ anyway), but it would have been nice to have a sword that fit his hand the way Rhindon fit Peter's.

Frustrations aside, Edmund really did enjoy sword practice. Fighting took focus, there was a pleasure in landing a hit, and it was easier, in some ways, to learn to become a better swordsman than to become a better person.

Edmund didn't win this round, either, but he landed a few good hits, and he stayed on his feet this time. Peter even looked tired from the match when he accepted the victory. "Good job, Ed," said his brother, patting Edmund's shoulder.

Dallin nodded approval as well. "I glimpsed the heroes of Beruna in that match."

Edmund, putting up his practice sword and returning the real one to his sword-belt, shrugged, torn between pleasure and discomfort with the compliment. He hadn't been a hero. There was no need for him to respond, however.

Peter sheathed Rhindon and said seriously, "Aslan is the hero of Beruna." He smiled, perhaps to take the sting out of the correction, and then nodded to Edmund. "If you ever come at me the way you did those ogres, though, I won't stand a chance."

Edmund just rolled his eyes at this. Peter sighed, looking vaguely frustrated, but there were things Peter would never understand. _Never,_ thought Edmund, _in a million years._

 _##_ #

Archery lessons followed sword practice. Susan was just leaving the butts when Edmund approached. Peter did not practice archery on the first day of the week, as he was scheduled to review the troops with Rostam before the midday meal. On the one hand, Edmund would have rather been with them. On the other, it was a relief not to have every shot compared to his older brother's, and it meant Edmund had Thornbut and Thornbut's stories all to himself.

The dwarven archer had been one of the first people Edmund had become comfortable talking to in Narnia. Thornbut put his focus on Aslan, Narnia, good fishing, and proper bowmanship, and he cared little about what one had been or done before coming to an appreciation for those four. Edmund was nowhere near the archer Susan was, but he spent a good deal of time with the archers in battle as part of Peter's attempts to keep him out of trouble, and so he received extra training in the bow.

"Your arm's getting stronger, Your Majesty, but if you insist on wearing yourself out in sword practice before you come, I can't be held responsible for what it does to your form," Thornbut said as they wound down.

 _I don't set the schedule,_ Edmund thought grumpily. A moment later, he remembered the extra sword match. Feeling faintly guilty, he offered, "Perhaps we can try to move the lessons about."

Thornbut nodded. "I know you've a heap on your plate, sire. I can talk to Captain Glasswater and the General, see that we're not stepping on one another's toes so much. In fact-"

Exactly what Thornbut had meant to suggest was lost as one of Susan's newest pages, a sleek, gray squirrel scampered up to them, chattering a message. "Your Majesty! Queen Susan requests your presence in the Great Hall. A messenger from the north has arrived!"

There was always something. "Tell Queen Susan I'm coming Bushnip," said Edmund. "And you needn't run so fast-" He tried to add, as the squirrel darted away without pausing for breath.

"It's no use, Your Majesty," said Thornbut. "He'll figure it out soon enough." He snorted. "Or he won't. He is a squirrel, after all."

Edmund grinned. Even the more experienced Narnian squirrels tended to rush about, and Bushnip wasn't so much older than Lucy by the standards of his own kind. "We ought to follow him, then, and see that he doesn't hurt himself on the way."

Susan was waiting in the little antechamber outside of the Great Hall. Edmund and Thornbut arrived simultaneously with Peter and General Rostam, followed shortly by Dallin Glasswater. Susan must have sent for the captain, as well, which meant that this was almost certainly a military matter. Lucy, ribbons dangling, arrived last, trailed by a dryad carrying a comb in one hand and a silver circlet in the other.

Susan gave the lady-in-waiting a sympathetic look and held out her hand. The dryad curtsied and relinquished her charge to the elder Queen. Expertly, Susan raked the blond curls into some order before tying the ribbons into a bow and setting the crown on Lucy's head. Without pausing, she turned and brushed the dust of the training grounds off Edmund's tunic, as well.

Edmund marvelled. As Susan made her inspection, not one dark hair was out of place. How she managed to be so put together when Edmund had seen her sweaty and dusty at the archery buttes less than an hour earlier mystified him. Only Peter escaped correction, though not scrutiny. The four entered together when the elder Queen deemed them all presentable.

###

"It's a very bad business, your majesties," said the messenger once the formalities had been observed. He was a gangly, greenish-gray Marshwiggle from a small village near the source of the River Shribble, "A band of werewolves attacked our village seven days ago. I was sent with the news as soon as anyone could be spared, although I don't doubt they'll be regretting the loss. I shouldn't wonder if the pack returned and destroyed the whole village while I was gone. Nothing but ash to go back to, I expect."

It was a serious business, but Edmund couldn't help being tempted to roll his eyes at the Marshwiggle's pessimism.

"Surely not!" said Lucy.

"We hope that isn't so, Cricklow" said Peter, "but I pledge we will put an end to their depredations, whatever the case."

Edmund wasn't certain such a promise would be quickly kept, but it did not surprise him that Peter would make it. He was _Peter._ Not to mention they had a responsibility.

"And we will do all we can to help rebuild," added Susan. "If you can tell us what you need, we'll send an escort back with medicines and supplies."

"That will be much welcome, your majesty," said Cricklow. "Very kind, though, I fear you'll beggar yourselves with too much generosity. Too many mouths about and winter coming on. No doubt some will go wanting."

An uneasy hush fell over the room at the mention of winter.

"Oh, no," said Lucy into the silence. "We've plenty to spare. The harvest has been wonderful. You can come and see!"

"After the audience, certainly," said Peter somewhat indulgently. Lucy turned a little pink at the tone. Peter leaned forward seriously. "Did you recognize any of the raiders?" he asked.

Edmund leaned in, as well.

"Not to look at, no," said the Marshwiggle. "But I heard a name. That's why the village elders sent me. Ulfson."

The stillness this time lasted even longer than the earlier one had. Then the whispers began. Edmund looked at Peter. His brother's expression was serious. A werewolf rather than a true Beast like the White Witch's chief of police, Ulfson had been among the rebels who received clemency the previous spring. He'd agreed to a period of service near Cauldron Pool in reparations under the sponsorship of a respected satyr.

"Has Anicetus sent any messenger?" Edmund asked, quietly so that only his siblings and the officers could hear him (hopefully - it was easy to underestimate the range of earshot of many Narnians).

Peter shook his head, but it was General Rostam who answered. "I've had no report from him in a fortnight, your majesty."

"I do hope he's all right," said Lucy. If Ulfson had returned to his old ways, he was unlikely to have spared his minder.

"Let's not jump to conclusions," said Susan. "He, or a messenger, may be on his way south now."

"But we have to help them," said Lucy. "All of them. Peter-" She turned to look at her oldest brother.

"We will," said Peter. "General Rostam, do you think we can be ready to leave tomorrow morning?" Edmund eyed his brother. The 'we' had not been very specific, and Peter had tried to leave him behind before.

The general nodded. "With a small force your majesty. I suggest Captain Glasswater gather reinforcements and follow us north in another week."

"Let's do that, then," said Peter. "Susan, Lucy, you take Master Cricklow to the storerooms, and see what we can spare. We'll need supplies for the army, as well, provisions and medical supplies. Ed and I will ride out tomorrow."

This assurance of his inclusion relieved Edmund, although Lucy still looked dissatisfied. "Won't you need healers with the army?" she asked. The high king had yet to allow her near a battle since Beruna (quite rightly, Edmund thought), though she had campaigned to be taken along on nearly every one.

"I'll need you _here_ , Lucy," said Susan hastily. Edmund rather thought that if Su had her way, none of them would ever ride out, Peter and Edmund included, which was a funny thing for a girl who could best most of the archers in the army.

"I'm certain we'll have enough," said Peter firmly. "But you should speak to Vlasos about what he'll need when we return, so you can be prepared." This did not seem to mollify the youngest queen. Peter lowered his voice. "And try and see if you can cheer up Cricklow? You're better at that sort of thing."

Lucy glanced at the morose-looking Marshwiggle and her expression changed to concern. "How awful for him," she said. "Of course, I'll try."

"Let's to it, then," said Susan.

###

"I ought to have guessed Ulfson hadn't reformed as much as he seemed," Peter said as they bent over maps in the war room later that day. Edmund, Thornbut and Dallin had joined Peter, General Rostam, and the general's aide Wilmot for the strategy session. "After breathing defiance almost to his trial. I didn't think he'd truly changed overnight, but I didn't want to execute him if there was a chance he might come to it, and Anicetus seemed so hopeful."

"Anicetus knew Ulfson as a child before his curse," said Rostam. "He was indulgent, but it's no weakness to show mercy, your majesty. The Great Lion is merciful as well as just."

Edmund sucked on his lower lip as he studied the map. Susan would have scolded him for the unattractive habit, but she and Lucy were closeted with Vlasos and Cricklow discussing provisioning. "You weren't the only one who wanted to give him a second chance," he said impatiently. The sentence of service in lieu of execution had been based on precedent set by Aslan himself when the Lion set a crown on Edmund's head instead of turning him over to Jadis, but Peter had a bad habit of taking responsibility for things that were manifestly the fault of others. "I thought he ought to make amends if he wanted to try, and he said he did." If anyone were to blame besides Ulfson himself…

"The last reports from Anicetus suggested he was doing just that," said Rostam. "Or seemed to be."

There was a sober silence. "He may be in hiding, unable to get word," said Thornbut, but he didn't sound convinced.

Susan and Lucy may have wanted to hold out hope, but the more experienced Narnians did not seem to share it. Anicetus had sent no message of the betrayal, which meant he was very likely dead. He _might_ be on the run as Thornbut suggested, but there was one other possibility, the one no one wanted to voice: that he had joined in his old friend's treason.

"Anicetus is a good faun," said Dallin. "I hope he went quickly, not knowing how he was betrayed." The silent wish accompanied it. _Better dead than a traitor._

That seemed to spur Peter out of his self-blame. "Where there's life, there's hope," said the high king. "It's important that we get aid to the Marshwiggles as soon as we can, but we ought to send a party to Anicetus's cave, as well. The question is how large a party? How far do we dare split our forces?"

###

They set out the next morning for Cricklow's village, accompanied by the Marshwiggle's predictions of disaster. "It's right fine of you to send help," he said to Susan from the saddle of one of Cair Paravel's ponies. "Though I daresay we'll be too late, the village burned to the ground, by the time we arrive."

Susan smiled, but her eyes were uncertain. "I hope that isn't the case, Master Cricklow. I'm sure you'll arrive in good time. Peter-" She stopped her older brother before he could mount his own horse and hugged him. "Take care of yourself and Edmund."

"Always, Su," said Peter. "Don't worry, we'll come back safe."

Edmund was next. He suffered the hug, along with another set of admonitions. "Be careful and don't forget to eat. You barely had any breakfast."

"I'll be fine," Edmund grumbled. "You don't need to make such a fuss." But the words never did any good.

"Promise me," Susan said.

Cricklow observed from his pony and shook his head sagely. "Her majesty is right to worry. Most likely, we'll all be ambushed on the journey or fall ill along the way."

Peter shook his head. "We'll keep a sharp lookout, Master Cricklow, I promise. And we'll be all right, Su. Aslan will guard our steps."

There was a murmur of agreement. "Aye that," said Cricklow, reverently. Apparently, even his gloom wasn't enough to doubt Aslan. "We're in the Lion's paws."

"I wonder why he came to ask for help, at all, if he believes we can't do any good," Edmund muttered to Lucy, when Wilmot had begged Queen Susan's attention. The Marshwiggle's pessimism set his nerves on edge. He hadn't slept well the night before and had been able to choke down only half the hearty breakfast the housekeepers had prepared for the army.

"I think that's just his way," said Lucy. "Although he _is_ very gloomy, isn't he?" She looked longingly at the healer's train, led by Vlasos, then back at Edmund. "Don't worry, Ed, I know you'll be able to help them. You and Peter will stop the raiders. You always win."

"I don't need advice from a little girl," Edmund said snappishly. He regretted it immediately. "I'm sorry, Lu."

Lucy smiled understandingly. "It's all right being nervous, Ed. Just do what I do. Act cheerful until you feel like it." She glanced at the Marshwiggle and said confidentially, "Perhaps Master Cricklow ought to try it."

Edmund snickered. "I don't know if anything will help there," he whispered back. Lucy's bright encouragement did more to settle his uneasy stomach than Susan's fretting, even if both of them meant well. He wondered what else his little sister hid so well.

"Don't worry, Su," he called, climbing into the saddle. "I'll keep Peter from challenging any giants to single combat while we're in the north."

Susan's response was an exasperated smile, but she stepped back to the steps of the keep, calling Lucy with her. At a signal from Rostam, Wilmot struck up a steady drumbeat, and the army set off.

###

It was decided in the end that Edmund would accompany Cricklow and the supply party to the village on the Shribble while Peter and Rostam sought out Anicetus. Edmund pretended not to be perfectly aware that this was Peter's attempt to keep him out of danger, sending him to the known quantity of the Marshwiggle's village, instead of investigating the unknown fate of Ulfson's sponsor. Even then, relatively safe as the mission should be, Peter had assigned an sizable number of soldiers, including Captain Dallin Glasswater, to the party. "You just don't want to have to spend another day listening to how we're all going to die horrible deaths," Edmund said to his brother in the kings' tent the evening before they were to separate.

"Cricklow is a good sort," said Peter, beating the end of his bedroll into an approximation of a pillow. "Even if he can be a bit tiresome. He was a hero at the crossing of the river."

This was true, Edmund conceded. The Marshwiggle had swallowed his usual doomsaying to help coax a contingent of water-shy Bobcats across the ford and rescue a packpony that had lost its footing. Actual calamity did not seem to phase him so much as the potential for it. "Yes, but you're not the one listening to him, are you? You get out of traveling with him."

"Traveling _early,_ " Peter reminded him. "Go to sleep, Ed."

Edmund lay back on his own pallet, listening to Peter's breathing. It reminded him of nights back in Finchley when he'd been very small and somehow convinced the sound was the only thing to keep the monsters away (at school, he'd learned even that was not always enough and it had taken nearly dying at the Witch's hands for him to forgive Peter's lack of omniscience and invincibility there; in Narnia he'd learned the monster was far closer to home and been grateful once again that Peter's presence meant he was not alone with the beast). Even through the bedroll, the ground was hard with clumps of grass and deceptively small pebbles that had been missed in setting up camp, but that sound and murmurs from without the tent succeeded in putting him to sleep far more quickly than his canopied featherbed at Cair Paravel.

###

Not only did Master Cricklow live up to Edmund's expectations, but he seemed to be a perfect representation of his fellow Marshwiggles. The villagers received the delegation with appreciation, but also with dreary predictions that the royal aid would come with a high cost to their benefactors.

"We only hope you don't suffer for want of what you've brought us," said the mayor, leaning heavily on a crutch as he met with Edmund outside his hut. "Would your majesty care to come in and rest? It's a tight squeeze, and Lochbell's just gotten the younglings down for a nap, but chances are they won't stay asleep anyway. It will be a dreary enough awakening for them no matter when they stir."

"I'm all right, truly," said Edmund. "Captain Dallin and I need to distribute the provisions. Your younglings can rest." Gradually, and with Susan's tireless tutelage, he was growing used to the assorted terms used by different Narnians for their families. He'd never admit it to his older sister, but Edmund actually found the differences interesting.

"Oh, they aren't mine," said the mayor as Cricklow bobbed his head and glanced at the flap of door. "With their mother dead and their father gone to bear news, I thought it was better they come here while we rebuild their wigwam. Lochbell lost her own, so she came to care for them."

A curious ache twisted Edmund's insides as he realized that Cricklow had left his motherless and homeless children in the care of others in order to seek help for the village. Looking around at the gathering Marshwiggles, Edmund could see that the mayor was not the only one recovering from injuries. He wondered if Cricklow had volunteered because he'd heard Ulfson's name or because he'd been the only one hale enough for the journey to Cair Paravel.

"In that case, we'll let Master Cricklow reunite with his younglings," said Edmund. "If you will show us where the greatest needs are?"

Village was really a rather loose term for the settlement of Marshwiggles, Edmund learned. Most of those gathered at the mayor's wigwam were those who, like Cricklow's younglings and the widowed Lochbell, had nowhere else to go. Mayor Brakewell had opened his small home to as many as it would hold while he and the rest slept on bedrolls by the fire outside. Other wigwams - those that had survived the raid - dotted the marshes. After discussing the situation with his captains and the mayor, Edmund eventually decided to assign Vlasos and the healers to a temporary hospital camp near the mayor's home, and a contingent of dwarves and more able-bodied Marshwiggles to the rebuilding efforts. He accompanied the food distribution party himself.

###

Edmund felt he had far and away the easiest task. Marshwiggles might not overflow with cheer, but their gratitude made itself felt when one grew used to their ways. They appreciated every sack of grain and dried fish from the stores at Cair Paravel, and one of the younglings actually smiled shyly at receiving a cloak hemmed with slightly crooked stitching.

"Lu - Queen Lucy did that herself," Edmund confided in the young wiggle (a girl, he was fairly certain, but not quite). "She wanted to be here, but Queen Susan needed her, so she sent this instead." The smile brightened to one that rivaled Lucy's own, and Edmund felt warm. "That's what they do when they have to stay home." He drew out his handkerchief to demonstrate. It had been a birthday present a few weeks earlier, and Lucy had attempted embroidery. The 'E' was wobbly and squashed at best. "She's still practicing."

They really ought to visit this part of Narnia more often, Edmund thought watching the young wiggle run after a group of others. He turned to pull another bundle from the supply wagon. Or at least they ought to keep in better contact. The Sweetclaws hailed from not far away, and between their matriarch Ursula and Anicetus there had been so little trouble in the north compared with other areas, that the kings and queens had not yet had time to attend to this region of their new kingdom. Perhaps they could assign some birds or bats as messengers - or a relay of the dryads. He was too busy considering the best way to present this plan to Peter to be aware of his surroundings, so when the attack came, Edmund had a basket of apples hanging from each arm and no easy way to draw his sword without dumping them all on the ground.

He didn't think until later how foolish it was. It just seemed such a shame to let the little food these folk had go to waste. So Edmund was still struggling to set the baskets down gently and call for reinforcements when he heard a scream. It was the same young Marshwiggle from earlier. A huge gray wolf had its teeth in the roughly hemmed cloak, and was dragging the youngling toward the woods away from the fighting.

The apples would have to be sacrificed. Edmund ran after the two shouting. "For the Lion!"

He was still a little surprised when it worked. He shouldn't be, he told himself, and then there wasn't time for more. The wolf released the young wiggle's cloak and turned to Edmund with a grin that showed every sharp tooth. "Come to join us?" It almost sounded pleased. Three more wolves emerged from the woods.

"Run!" Edmund told the youngling who did not wait for a second order. The wolves - Edmund squinted at them - werewolves did not follow the Marshwiggle as he'd half feared. They'd found a prey they liked better.

This was not Edmund's first battle, nor his second, and Dallin's training had sunk in. The gaping mouths and teeth, the taunts and growls had not become so familiar as to be commonplace, but Edmund - or his body, at least, knew what to do. He stabbed and swung and dodged, and there was blood on his clothes and the ground that was not his own. Still it seemed from the claws and fur around him like the number of enemies must have increased. He couldn't let them get behind him, Edmund knew that. He imagined Dallin's voice. _Don't let the enemy choose the ground._ He needed to get back to the others. Under Peter's orders, the captains were very protective. As soon as they realized he was fighting alone, Captain Glasswater would send - or more likely bring - more fighters to his aid, but that could leave the village unprotected. Edmund didn't want to think of others being left vulnerable on his account - _Aslan won't let that happen._ \- but help would be appreciated at the moment.

A leaping wolf took his attention, and Edmund stabbed at it before it could sink its teeth into him. The beast twisted as it fell, however, and the sword caught and stuck in the creative's body. The other werewolves swarmed around it, cutting Edmund off from retrieving it, but held back from attacking. Edmund drew his dagger, knowing it would be little use against so many and backed up against a tree. The largest werewolf gave a howling laugh, revealing a distinctive black patch on its throat. "There's nowhere to run," it said. "No one to take your place this time, traitor."

The words sent a shiver down Edmund's spine. The marshwiggles. It wasn't the first time the accusation had lobbed against him by the Witch's former adherents, however. "You broke your word, Ulfson," he said, mimicking Peter's most kingly tone and keeping his eyes on the werewolf rather than the movement in the woods behind him. "You'll be punished for everyone you've harmed today."

Ulfson grinned toothily, enjoying the opportunity to gloat. "You know me," he acknowledged. "And I know who will answer for his crimes first." He leapt, but he should have done so sooner. The stirring among the trees became a onslaught that swept over the fell beasts. For a moment Edmund thought he would be caught under both waves. The leader of the werewolves seemed inches away. Then Ulfson fell backwards with Rhindon's bloody tip poking through his chest. Peter, looking every inch the high king, stood over him.

Peter wiped his sword on Ulfson's fur and saluted his brother. Edmund had no sword to return the salute, but he made do with his dagger. Usually, this was where both would break into grins at the exhilaration of fighting side by side, but Peter only nodded grimly at Edmund, and took up his place beside him. There was something in the air. Was it annoyance at having to rescue his brother from another scrape? Had Peter heard Ulfson's words?

 _#_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Characters and situations are not mine. They belong to C.S. Lewis's estate. I know that others have others have created their versions of the Narnian calendar. Thornbut's history can be found in meldahlie's "This is No Thaw" which I highly recommend. Emrys's history comes from a combination of C.S. Lewis's notes and my own extrapolations. The Sweetclaws will hopefully have their own story one day.

 **Reasonable Expectation**

 **Chapter Two**

 _Western Shribble, Northern Narnia, mid-Leafgold, NT 1000_

"Your arrival was most timely, Your Majesty," said Dallin Glasswater.

Peter nodded, although his reply was postponed by the commotion from the healer's tent where Vlasos was examining a protesting Edmund.

"I'm all right," Edmund insisted to Vlasos. "They didn't even scratch me."

"I'd be remiss in my duty if I didn't make absolutely certain, Your Majesty," said Vlasos patiently. The faun's ability to bear with stubborn soldiers and recalcitrant kings with equanimity and firmness was the reason he'd been given the position of chief healer.

Peter rather sided with Vlasos. Narnian werewolves did not pass on their curse through one bite - it took darker rituals than that - but the wounds they gave were ugly and slow to heal. Still he had some sympathy for his brother. He turned back to Dallin and the rest of the informal war council that had formed in the aftermath of the battle. "So it seems," he agreed. "Is the fighting over?" If they were needed elsewhere, he would have to leave Edmund in Vlasos and Dallin's care while he pursued.

The answer came from General Rostam, rather than the captain. The lamassu shook his horned head. "The last of the werewolves have been subdued or have fled, Your Majesty," he said. "The Sweetclaw brothers have caught no trace of additional rebels."

If only for the battle today. Tomorrow was always another day. "You seem to have everything else well in hand."

The captain nodded. "King Edmund choose well in dividing the labor. Mayor Breakwell has high praise for him, and so do the younglings. He saved Cricklow's daughter from the rebels."

"Any praise from a Marshwiggle is high praise," said Thornbut with a snort.

Peter hid a smile. "Perhaps so. It was well done."

"I said I was fine, Vlasos!" Edmund's complaints broke through again. He escaped from the chief healer's ministrations and joined the group with a disgruntled expression. "Were any of the younglings hurt?" he asked anxiously.

Peter shook his head. "The mayor says that everyone seems to be safe," he said.

"Indeed," said Dallin Glasswater. "And I'm told a very grateful young Marshwiggle has been acting out your majesty's rescue of her with a basket of apples."

Both Rostam and Thornbut smiled at this.

"Apples?" Peter looked curiously at his brother.

Edmund reddened and muttered. "Not very heroic." He shook his head. "Did we catch them all? And what did you learn about Anicetus?"

Peter frowned. "It's likely some escaped, but the village is in the clear for the time being. We haven't found Anicetus, but his cave was undisturbed. We'll continue looking, but since it doesn't seem he was harmed…"

He trailed off. The officers exchanged glances. Anicetus might have been lured away or ambushed at a distance from his cave, but the circumstances did not bode well for his innocence.

"But we can't leave them undefended," Edmund said urgently. "If any of the werewolves return, they'll be sitting d-helpless."

"Of course, we won't," said Peter. "We'll leave a guard for the village, but with Ulfson dead, the rest may be wary of attacking for a while."

Edmund's face turned redder. "All right, then," he said more quietly. Peter wondered if he'd been too brusque or if it was just the mention of Ulfson that had subdued his brother. Riding up to find the village under attack and then spotting Edmund surrounded had shaken Peter and he hadn't been the one cornered. The werewolf's threats had nearly sent him rushing in without thinking, but his younger brother's response had made him proud. Edmund could be forgiven for nerves in the aftermath. "Who do you plan to leave?" he asked.

"Half of Thornbut's archers, a squad of satyrs, and the Tigers," said Peter. "For the time being, at least. We can discuss more over supper. Vicereine Ursula has invited us to Delver's Hollow. I think she'll be willing to send aid, as well."

Edmund brightened at the mention of food. "Mahon and Trento will like that," he said. "But perhaps-" he stopped.

"What is it?" asked Peter.

"Perhaps leave the Bobcats instead of the Tigers" said Edmund. "Or as well as? The Tigers are more comfortable around the water, even if marshes aren't the same as they're used to, but Cricklow did Rufus and Varus a good turn, and I think they'd like to return it."

Peter nodded thoughtfully. "Well, cousins?" he asked.

"They fought well," said Dallin. "And kept their heads."

"I concur," said Rostam.

"As long as they don't lose their nerve in the marshes," said Thornbut. "No doubt it will do them good, and the Tigers will be there to keep them in line if they panic."

"Give the order then," said Peter. "We'll march as soon as Vlasos declares everyone fit."

###

The ancestral home of the Sweetclaw Clan was a good two-hour ride upriver, but the prospect of a hot meal was motivation enough for the troops. They set out with a will, Mahon and Trento loudly proclaiming the delights that awaited in their mother's household. Peter's own stomach growled in response to the description of baked trout, sautéed mushrooms and berry pie. His mount's ears twitched at the rumbling.

"Do they have to go on?" said Edmund, riding up beside him. Peter looked sharply at him, but Edmund looked to be (mostly) joking. "It's torture listening to that while we're still an hour away."

Peter smiled wryly. "I hate to tell them to stop when they're enjoying themselves," he said. "They haven't been home since just after Beruna. It's understandable."

Edmund opened his mouth to reply, but looked up instead as the sun went suddenly dark. A huge shape blocked the light, casting a long sinuous shadow over the marching Narnians. A call went up from further down the line. "Dragon!"

Peter's horse shied and jumped aside. "Easy!" said Peter. "Easy, Tencendur!"

"Peter!" Edmund said anxiously. He had a hand on his sword, already, Peter noted with approval.

"I'm all right, Ed." he said, then added to his horse, "Carefully." He avoided being tossed, but Tencendur was not willing to settle down so easily. Perhaps 'strife' had not been the best choice of names. Calming him took precious time, as Peter kept glancing upward and shading his eyes to get a better view of the threat.

Then a second call went up. Thornbut, who had the best eyesight of the officers, confirmed the new report. "It's Emrys, sire."

Reassured, Peter nodded. "Make way!" he called, half of his attention still on the prancing horse, and the Narnian troops moved away from the river, leaving space for the dragon to land on the bank.

A dragon coming in to land was a mesmerizing sight. There was just so much of him. Emrys circled in a long slow turn, waiting as they made way for him and then lighted down on the soft earth of the riverbank, yard after yard beside the water with his long narrow head towards Peter and Edmund. Emrys bowed his head and neck. "Your majesties," he said in a creaky voice as wisps of smoke left his nostrils. "I was told you were gone ahead and followed. My apologies for not arriving in time to help."

"No apology is needed," said Peter. "We know you would have assisted had you been there. Fortunately, there proved not to be a need."

General Rostam echoed him. "You've done well, Emrys," the bull-man called up. "You've earned your rest."

Emrys' mouth stretched in a smile like a crocodile's. "Earning, but never earned, Rostam," he said. "My debt is still unpaid." He swung his head back to Peter and wagged it up and down in a nod. "If there is any way in which I can be of service…"

"We'll be sure to call for you," said Peter with a smile.

"Thank you, your majesty," the dragon said. "Perhaps, if I fly back a bit and offer my services to Mayor Breakwell?"

Peter exchanged glances with Edmund and then with General Rostam. "I think that would be very welcome," he said, at last. "Advise Rufus that you have a royal commission."

The crocodile smile widened. "Yes, sire."

Emrys politely waited for the line of soldiers to pass before taking flight again.

"That should solve the Marshwiggles' trouble," said Edmund with a grin, watching him off. "It's hard to imagine anyone attacking a village guarded by a dragon."

"Hopefully, a deterrent will be all that is necessary, sire," said Rostam. "Emrys is really too old to be engaging in anymore battles. He wasn't young when the Winter started, and the last raid on the Witch's castle did him in."

Peter frowned at this reminder that there had been one enemy, at least, who was not intimidated by the dragon's strength. "As long as it won't do him an injury, I can't deny his heart," he said. "But we didn't leave provisions for a dragon."

"That, at least, we can remedy," said Rostam. "And I don't believe he's beyond hunting yet or he wouldn't be venturing out of his cave. The oldest, they say, just retire into the mountains and sleep, dumb and Talking, alike."

"Are there dumb dragons, then?" asked Edmund.

"Aye, sire." Rostam said. "Phoebus isn't here to make a proper song of it, but they say, the first dragons were men who turned from Aslan and warred against his king and queen, turned so wicked that Aslan and His Father changed them into creatures beyond beasts. Dangerously clever, beautiful, but fearsome enough to make honest folk wary. Some embraced the opportunity to take their cruelty to new depths, while others wearied eventually of fighting against the true king and became Narnia's fiercest defenders."

"'My debt is still unpaid,'" murmured Peter, thoughtfully. "'Earning, but not earned.'"

Rostam nodded. "It's been long years since Emrys mended his ways, but he feels it."

Peter looked at Edmund. His brother's eyes were fixed on the road ahead of them. "Even less can I deny him, then," he said.

They rode on for nearly an hour as the path climbed and wove into the foothills. It was just dipping into a tree-filled valley when Tencendur's ears twitched forward. At nearly the same moment, Peter spotted Mahon raising his nose towards the sky. He put one hand on the horse's bridle in case it decided to shy again, and eased Rhindon partially out of its sheath with the other.

There was no need for alarm, however. A moment later, a young brown bear, quite a bit smaller than Trento or Mahon, emerged from the valley at a trundling gallop.

She - it was evident when she spoke - called out to them as she approached. "Welcome, your majesties!" She was a bit too large to be called a cub, but clearly not yet full grown either. She must have been keeping watch.

Peter raised a hand to halt the march. The young bear tumbled to a stop in front of them, raised up on her hind legs, and then dropped forward onto all fours again in a bear's bow. "High King Peter, King Edmund, welcome to Delver's Hollow! Mama has supper almost ready."

Peter smiled. "Thank you-" He searched his memory for the name of Mahon and Trento's younger sister. He'd met her once, with her mother and brothers, at his coronation, but quite a bit had happened since. Edmund hissed a name under his breath, and Peter completed, "-Lady Ailsa."

Her snout opened in a grin, showing quite a few white teeth and a large pink tongue. "It will be hot when you arrive."

"Then, by all means, lead on, my lady," said Peter.

That prompted an even bigger grin, but as she turned to lead the way, another adolescent bear came tumbling through the trees, complaining. "Ailsa! You were supposed to wait for me," he said. "Mama said you were."

"It isn't my fault you were slow," Ailsa retorted. "You shouldn't have wasted time nosing around the pies, Otso."

"I was just checking them," said Otso. He reared upright to look down on his sister. "To make sure they were fit for their majesties to eat."

Peter saw Edmund shoot him a grin, and he hid a smile of his own. The two young bears sounded awfully like his own younger siblings on occasion.

"Here, now!" called Mahon from behind him. The squabbling bears stopped and turned to look at him. "Show respect to their majesties by not keeping them from their supper."

Ailsa and Otso ducked their snouts in near identical sheepish expressions. "Yes, Mahon," they said together.

"We're sorry, your majesties," added Ailsa.

Otso said, "The feast is this way." He turned and led them away from the river, along the edge of the valley at a lumbering trot apparently designed to keep him just ahead of his protesting sister. Peter urged Tencendur after their young guides. At first, he saw nothing but trees and stone. Just a few minutes further, however, and they were entering a wide, dry cave, big enough for their company and more. The sound of the river could be heard somewhere beyond where it sprang out of the mountain and cloaked the den from sight. Peter recalled Phoebus, the old court bard, telling him that Delver's Hollow had been one of the last of the northern defenses to fall to the White Witch. He could believe it.

True to Otso's promise, a feast awaited them in the large cave. Fresh fish, both baked and fried, were laid out on platters on large tables, along with honey cakes, and apple tarts, and barrels of honey mead traded from the Marshwiggles downriver. Vicereine Ursula had prepared a meal fit for a company of soon-to-be wintering bears and could not quite be convinced that her non-ursine guests had eaten enough, even after three helpings of baked pavenders in berry sauce and two large flagons of mead.

"I assure you, Dame Ursula," said Peter at last. "It's wonderful, but if I eat anymore, I may burst."

Ursula was a gracious host, and a beautiful bear, nearly as large as her older sons, but tawnier and redder in the coat than they. "If you're certain, your majesty," she said doubtfully. "There is plenty more, and you've growing to do. From what little I know of sons of Adam, you're barely older than Otso and Ailsa as your folk go."

"It's true," said Edmund who had stuffed himself full of Ursula's apple and pear tarts in addition to the rest. He still had the last bite of tart in his mouth and looked ready to be rolled off to their tent when he added, "We couldn't eat another mouthful."

Peter smiled. "I wouldn't say no, however, if you decided to teach the recipe for that fish to the chef at Cair Paravel," he said.

"Lion's mane, no, your majesty," said Ursula, very seriously. "I wouldn't dream of intruding on another cook's kitchen. I wouldn't like anyone nosing about telling me how to manage my den, after all."

Edmund grinned into his mug. Peter shared his brother's amusement, but hastily assured their hostess that he and his siblings had no intention of dictating the management of Delver's Hollow.

"We're only here to see that our cousins along the Shribble are able to live their lives peaceably," he said. This prompted cheers from the company along with a nod of approval from Thornbut.

"Very good, your Majesty," said Ursula with a smile. "Use your paws, Otso," she added to her son, as Otso prepared to dive snout first into his fifth helping. She turned back to Peter. "That awful Witch - not saying it was the worst of what she did, of course - never was willing to stay out of anyone's business." She shook her head, her dark eyes distant. "All those laws. No gatherings over a dozen or so, no talking of Aslan, no speaking ill of any of her laws, none of the old ceremonies allowed… It was very bad. I'm glad my cubs are able to see better times. I just wish my Orsino could have…"

She trailed off, leaving the cave in silence. Even Otso's hungry wuffling stopped. He and Ailsa looked up at their mother. From their own places in the cave, Mahon and Trento shuffled around to their mother and sandwiched her between them. She turned her head to nuzzle each of them in turn.

"Orsino was a hero, Ursula," said Rostam. "I was honored to have fought beside him. He believed in better days, and he died knowing that he was helping Aslan to bring the prophecy to pass."

Ursula bobbed her head in acknowledgement. "Don't mind me," she said. "It's the feel of winter coming that makes me maudlin."

Peter, face grim, noticed that Edmund's grin had faded as well. So many Narnian families had sacrificed to put an end to the White Witch's reign. "We won't forget how much the Sweetclaw Clan has given for Narnia," he promised. It was times like this that the golden crown felt particularly heavy. "There's still much to undo, but I hope for a time when those horrible days your husband fought to end are not even remembered."

Ursula sniffled once, collected herself, and shook her head. "Oh, no, your majesty," she said. "The thought speaks well of you, to be sure, but no. It's best to remember. Always remember what was, what we've seen, and what the Lion has overcome." She nodded her head for emphasis. "It was forgetting got us _her_ , after all."

"Quite right," murmured Thornbut. The captain of the archers came from a family that had thoroughly forgotten Aslan, and he had spent years in exile holding out hope for the Great Lion's return while his kin forgot him, as well.

"I stand corrected," said Peter, soberly. He wondered if he would ever know all he needed to fulfill the commission Aslan had given him. He was kept from brooding on the subject, however, by a commotion further back toward the entrance of the cave. There were raised voices, unintelligible due to the sound of the waterfall, and a scuffling against stone. "What is it?" he said coming to his feet. Edmund jumped up beside him, as well.

Ursula reared up on her hind legs. With her grown sons beside her, the Sweetclaws made an imposing sight.

A murmur traveled back through the assembly. A large mole scampered through the cave, coming to a halt between Peter and Ursula. "We found an intruder, Your Majesties, Vicereine."

A pair of red-bearded dwarves entered, arrows trained on an elderly faun. "We caught him skulking about among the rocks above the waterfall, high king," said one of them.

Dirty, thin, and scraped, beard tangled and hair overgrown, Anicetus practically fell at Peter's feet. "Your Majesty! At last!"

Peter sheathed Rhindon and bent down to help the faun to a chair.

Edmund hissed. "Peter!" He still had his sword drawn, nor had the dwarves lowered their bows. The Bears dropped back to all fours, but still looked wary.

"It's all right," said Peter. He filled a plate, blessing Ursula's abundant provision, and laid it on the table in front of Anicetus.

The faun looked from the meal to Peter, in confusion. "Henrik," he said desperately.

It was Ulfson's given name. Peter exchanged glances with Rostam. The general shook his head soberly. "Gone, Anicetus."

The old faun's face fell. "I couldn't prevent him. His mother would be heartbroken."

"He and his werewolves nearly destroyed Smallshear," growled Trento. "And would have killed King Edmund."

Anicetus flinched, but did not look at Trento or at Edmund. "Forgive me, your majesty," he said to Peter. "I failed my charge."

So he had, but then so had Peter. It had been no one else's decision but his to offer Ulfson his second chance. Peter sighed. "Anicetus," he said seriously. "I need to know what happened. When did you learn what Ulfson was up to? Why didn't you report sooner?"

Anicetus stared at his food without touching it. "I didn't see it, at first. He was reluctant, but he seemed willing to learn, to change…" He shook his head sadly. "And then when I realized, I thought I could stop him. I set out after him, but every track I followed ended in nothing, until I heard rumor that your majesty had come north…"

"You would have been welcome in Delver's Hollow," said Ursula. "We could have sent word to Cair Paravel."

Anicetus shook his head again. "It was my failure, my responsibility. And now that I have seen your majesty, I will return to my cave with my disgrace." He started to rise from the chair, but stumbled.

"You'll do no such thing," said Peter. "You'll camp with us tonight and then return with us to Cair Paravel tomorrow. We will discuss these matters there."

###

Peter had hoped that a night's rest would improve Anicetus's health and give more detail to his story, but the old faun seemed only to decline over the next few days. He was given one of the pack ponies to ride for the journey back to Cair Paravel, but by their arrival seemed only fit to retire to a room prepared for him. Even had his health been better, he was clearly too grief-stricken to attend the welcoming feast which Susan and Lucy had prepared.

###

Peter watched as Edmund pushed the food around his plate. Normally, on return from a campaign, his younger brother seemed determined to eat his weight and then some, but while Peter was fairly certain he'd seen the fork move to Edmund's mouth multiple times, the amount of food on the plate had not grown noticeably less.

After dinner, in recognition of the victory over the werewolves, Phoebus the faun had chosen to debut his newest composition: The Ballad of Sir Wolfsbane. It was a bit odd to be sung about in such a way, something Peter was only beginning to become accustomed to. Narnians could be so very enthusiastic in their praises. It made one feel rather awkward. Though, to be fair, after one hundred years in which both spring and the sons of Adam and daughters of Eve had faded from distant memory into myth, six months wasn't _so_ long a time for the relief and celebration to continue. Peter hardly had the heart to deny them. It was growing late, however. Susan kept giving him pointed looks and glancing at Lucy. The latter listened to the music with a rapt smile, but her eyes kept drooping and her head nodding. Edmund wriggled in his seat every few seconds, as if he were trying very hard to be still and attentive, but couldn't quite help himself. Peter couldn't blame his siblings. Ed was only ten, however much he'd matured in the past few months, and Lucy was not yet nine. King and queen, they might be, but they were still children. Besides, Edmund's near disaster with the werewolves in the recent battle could not make the subject of the court bard's song - the fight with Maugrim in Aslan's camp - a particularly pleasant subject.

"Thank you, Phoebus. I don't think we could ask for a better conclusion to our evening," Peter said aloud when the song had ended. "My royal sisters and brother and I would not keep anyone else from their enjoyment, but the four of us must rest to prepare for tomorrow's labors." He stood, followed by Edmund who practically leapt from his chair and Susan who had to coax the nodding Lucy to alertness before the little girl stood as well. They waited for the bows that followed. It had been awkward to do, at first (there had been some embarrassing moments in their first weeks when they had simply left before the court could acknowledge them), but it was becoming more natural. Lucy gave the room a brilliant, if sleepy, smile before leaving, and then yawned widely as they left the hall.

Susan put a hand on Lucy's shoulder, steering her towards the stairs. "I'll get her to bed," she said to Peter. "You see to Edmund."

"Edmund?" Peter repeated, turning to look at his brother. After the doors had closed behind him, Edmund's shoulders had drooped and his eyes shadowed. He looked tired, but more than that. Peter had recognized the restlessness during the music, but not the tension until he saw some of it leave.

His younger brother caught Peter's gaze and straightened up, apparently not wanting to be seen as anything less than put together. He was so determined to live up to Aslan's words at their coronation.

Peter looked back at Susan who nodded. She lowered her voice to just above a whisper. "They're all about you, you know." He raised an eyebrow in question. "The songs. The ones Phoebus writes, especially. And in the north, you had to come to his rescue. Again. It's wearing."

"I'm not the only one," Peter protested in an equally low tone. "All of us. And it's not as if he hasn't done the same for me. Everyone who was at Beruna knows what a hero Ed is. Phoebus's nephew fought." That battle, like this one, granted, had taken its toll and left its scars, both figurative and literal.

Susan bit her lip and shook her head. "Not everyone looks at the world the way you do, Peter."

She sounded so knowing that Peter was a bit peeved. "Perhaps you ought to talk to him, then, while I see Lucy upstairs," he said.

Susan shook her head again.

"Why not?" Peter asked, almost forgetting to keep his voice low.

As if stating the obvious, she replied, "I'm not his hero, Peter."

###

With those slightly daunting words in mind, Peter knocked on the door to his younger brother's rooms.

"You can come in, Peter." Upon Peter's opening the door, Edmund's expression, knowing and slightly sarcastic, was so familiar that it was almost a relief. Peter was proud of the strides Edmund had made in the months since they'd come to Narnia, but all the same, it reassured him to know that his little brother was still his little brother. "Susan's fussing again." Edmund said, sitting down on his bed.

Peter took a chair without waiting for one to be offered. They'd shared a bedroom from the time Edmund had graduated from the cot at the foot of their parents' bed to coming to Narnia. Cair Paravel might be large enough to give them rooms of their own, but it was still habit to make himself at home. "She thinks she has to take Mum's place," he said commiserating.

Edmund rolled his eyes. "Like you don't try to take Dad's," he scoffed, although the words didn't contain the venom they had in the past. Still, something was troubling his younger brother. Susan might have been the one to draw his attention to it, but Peter could see the signs.

It wasn't that Peter wanted their father's role, but it was incumbent on him regardless. He'd been a big brother for as long as he could remember, with Susan to protect, even before his first memory of being presented with a baby brother. The injunction to look after the younger ones had been ingrained before there was a thought of war or evacuation or kingdoms to rule. Here in Narnia, without their parents or the Professor, he couldn't help but feel the charge even more keenly. Not to mention the fact that he was now responsible for a country as well as his siblings. "Not Dad's," he said aloud. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm _fine_ ," said Edmund with some of his old irritation. "You already had every healer with the army look at me after the battle. Even Lucy couldn't find an excuse to use her cordial."

Peter smiled a little at that, although it concerned him. Lucy hated to see anyone in discomfort and was prone to use her gift from Father Christmas at the least excuse. Peter had been forced to put his foot down and make a royal decree that the vial was to kept safe in Cair Paravel's treasure room and not utilized except in utmost need or the precious healing cordial would be used up before they reached the first anniversary of their coronation. "That was a close call," he said.

Edmund scowled. " _I_ 'm not the one who nearly fell off my horse during the victory march."

Peter frowned. "I didn't nearly fall off." He'd been a little distracted in the aftermath of the battle, particularly after barely keeping that werewolf from killing Edmund, but… He was about to argue further, but there was a familiar smirk on his little brother's face. Peter was not going to be drawn into a fight this time. Susan's words came back to him, and he decided to turn the conversation around.

"You did well out there, close or not. Dad would be proud."

Edmund's face turned very red, and he appeared suddenly fascinated by the coverlet on his bed. "Of course," he said, impishly. " _I_ stayed on my horse."

Peter sighed in exasperation. Couldn't his brother just take a compliment? "I didn't fall off! The point is, everybody freezes sometimes whether they write songs about it or not."

The mischievous smile faded. It _had_ been the song that was bothering Edmund, then. He rubbed his thumb back and forth over the gold embroidery on the coverlet as if trying to wipe it out of existence.

Peter decided not to acknowledge the renewed ill humor. He hadn't spoken about the fight with Maugrim before, but perhaps he should. "It wasn't anything like Phoebus makes out," he said. "I was-" _terrified._ He couldn't say that. "-Well, you know how battles are. Forever in the moment, and then it's over. Mostly I felt sick." Peter caught sight of Edmund's face which had gone from red to green as if his brother felt rather ill himself. "Ed?"

Edmund turned away until all Peter could see was an ear and rumpled hair. He mumbled something Peter couldn't catch and flopped onto his pillow.

Peter leaned forward. "What?"

The mumble was even less intelligible when repeated.

Frustrated, Peter said, "You're going to have to talk to me and not the pillow."

Edmund's head lifted off the bed, but he did not turn. "I sent the wolves, Peter."

It took a moment before Peter realized what he meant. _Maugrim._ It wasn't restlessness or jealousy that had set his brother squirming all through Phoebus's performance.

"I suppose," Edmund added after a moment, " _she_ sent them. I just told them where to go." He sounded winded, as if he'd been running hard and was having trouble catching his breath.

Peter drew a long breath of his own. "I know," he said, at last.

"No." He looked up at Peter at last with eyes too wide and solemn for his face. "You don't."

"Well," said Peter, trying to shake off the expression in them. "Maybe not. But it's all right."

Edmund frowned and shook his head. Peter frowned, as well. He wished Phoebus hadn't chosen to sing that song. He wished he'd stabbed Ulfson before the werewolf could fling his barbs (Thankfully, Edmund did not know the full story behind those words). He wished his parents were here or Aslan - or even Susan who understood Edmund better than Peter could claim to do.

"It's all right," said Peter again. "And we do have work tomorrow." There was Anicetus to be questioned, he thought heavily, others to be brought to trial. "We should sleep."

There was another unintelligible mumble in response, but this one Edmund clarified without prompting. "It's too quiet." He turned, and Peter was relieved to see the mischief break through once more. "I've gotten used to your snoring." If his grin was suspiciously shaky, Peter chose not to notice.

"I don't snore," said Peter.

"Worse than the Bears after a feast," Edmund insisted.

Moving swiftly, Peter pulled the pillow from under his brother's head. "A detestable slur! Defend yourself, sirrah!"

Edmund yelped, grabbed another pillow, and met Peter's as he swung.

###


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Characters and situations are not mine. They belong to C.S. Lewis's estate. I know that others have others have created their versions of the Narnian calendar. Thornbut's history can be found in meldahlie's "This is No Thaw" which I highly recommend. Susan's conversation with Anicetus is found, in part, in my "Saints of Gold" collection under the chapter title, "Nothing Is So Strong."

 **Reasonable Expectation**

 **Chapter Three**

 _Cair Paravel, early Gathering, NT 1000_

The sledge sliced through the winter night, and the winter sliced through the sledge's occupants. Ice froze on Edmund's cheeks, and the blowing snow crusted his lashes making it difficult to see so much as the rail before him or hear anything beyond the crack of the whip, the roar and howl of the wind and the Witch's voice calling, 'Faster!'

Was it only the wind howling? The cry for speed turned to a 'Hold!' The sledge slowed and then stopped too quickly for Edmund to brace himself. He was flung forward against the rail, losing what frozen breath he'd managed to draw. "Well done."

He scrambled to regain his breath and senses and squinted through the storm to see what had pleased the Witch. They had overtaken a wolf pack feeding. One of the Beasts raised its muzzle from its victim to speak, and the snow cleared just enough for Edmund to see a face on the ground. "There's no one to take your place this time, traitor." Ulfson's words through Maugrim's lips. The wolf crouched to spring -

Edmund woke gasping in his room. His heart pounded and his mouth was dry. The fire had subsided to a dull glow . He looked at the chair where Peter had been sitting when Edmund fell asleep, but it was empty. It would be babyish to rush to his brother's room and alarm the high king's guards just because of a bad dream, but the chill lingered, making sleep impossible. Edmund wrapped himself in a blanket and made his way down to the Great Hall.

The fire was always laid there. Edmund added a log from the pile and sat on the hearth with his back to the warm stone, facing the great eastern doors. Above the crackling of the fire, he could hear the wind blowing over the waves, more light and alive than in his dreams. It mingled with voices, high and sweet and low and resounding: the merfolk of the Eastern Sea singing praises to Aslan and the Emperor over sea. Edmund exhaled, his eyes following the invisible strains up to the night sky. The twinkling stars almost seemed to join in the song.

"I never grow tired of that sound," said a low, gruff voice.

Edmund started up - he could just hear the arms master scolding him for not being on his guard - but it was only Thornbut. The dwarf had clearly been on watch. He wore his quiver over his shoulder and a dagger at his belt. Thornbut bowed. "Your pardon, sire. My feet are right tired."

Never had Edmund heard the captain of archers complain of discomfort, even on campaign. He had a feeling someone - Paulus or Brighteyes, perhaps, as Peter would have come himself - had alerted him. Thornbut's company was among the least obtrusive one could ask for, at least. Edmund shifted over on the hearth and waved for Thornbut to sit down.

The dwarf settled on the hearth with his bow across his knees and murmured his gratitude. For several minutes, he only listened as the song continued to rise to a crescendo. Only when it paused did he say, conversationally. "For years it was nothing but silence and frozen waves, but hear them now."

"What was it like?" Edmund had heard this story before, despite the question, but Thornbut always indulged him.

"Like an empty plain," said Thornbut. "Rimmed with cliffs of ice. White and still. There was life below the surface, of course - good fishing, and I hear the merfolk moved out about the Lone Isles during the Winter - but little to see."

It sounded lonely. Harsh and bleak on the gentlest of days. Edmund imagined what it must have been like in a storm.

"But times like this, I don't think of that." Thornbut continued.

Edmund turned from view of dark waves to look at the dwarf. "You don't?" he said.

Thornbut shook his head slowly. "No." He pointed out to sea. "I think of Aslan crossing the waves, brighter than the sun had shone in a hundred years and returning spring to Narnia."

The radiant vision conjured by Thornbut's words warmed Edmund in a way that the fire had not. Aslan at the top of the hill of the Stone Table, fierce and sad and knowing. Aslan declaring him a knight of Narnia on the battlefield beside the ford. Aslan breathing warmth and life into the little gathering of stone revelers and roaring laughter as the little squirrel attempted to hug his paw. Aslan naming him king under Peter with the reminder of all the responsibility that entailed. "When he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again," Edmund mumbled under his breath. He glanced self-consciously at Thornbut, but the dwarf still gazed out to sea and seemed not to have heard.

After a few moments, the mermaids resumed their song. Edmund relaxed and listened.

###

"You oughtn't have gone alone." Peter's voice was stern and serious when Edmund approached the little antechamber outside the audience room.

He was the last to arrive. As he closed the door behind him, Lucy looked back at him and shook her head in exasperation. "Oh, Peter, really!" she said, turning back to their older siblings. "Susan was marvelous."

Susan did not seem overly moved either by Peter's disapproval or Lucy's praise. "Felix was just outside the door," she said calmly. "You ought to have heard him. He's miserable, Peter."

"Felix is?" asked Edmund, feeling out of step.

Now Peter and Susan looked at him, Peter only briefly and Susan apparently seeking an ally. "Anicetus," she said. "I spoke with him about Henrik last night."

Edmund scowled at the use of Ulfson's given name. "Alone?" he said. "That's dangerous, Su! We still don't really know what side he's on." The recent nightmare teased at the back of his mind, plucking at the strings of his nerves. Edmund was no fonder of the notion of his older sister meeting with the faun alone than he had been of Peter leaving himself vulnerable to attack back in Delver's Hollow.

"I don't believe he could hurt anyone now," said Susan with an alarming degree of sympathy in her voice.

"Now?" Peter repeated. "He admitted to helping Ulfson?"

Susan hesitated. "Not in so many words," she said, at last. "But he clearly feels responsible. He spoke of his friend, of what brought him to-" her eyes flickered to Edmund and back. "To _her_. To take on the curse. He only wanted to help his family, and Anicetus, I think, only wanted to help his friend."

"Ulfson killed innocents," said Peter. "Over years. He was given the opportunity to reform, and he threw it away. He almost killed Edmund. He may well have been-" He cut himself off abruptly, rubbed his forehead just below the gold crown, and then sighed. "I didn't think I'd have to remind _you_ to be careful."

"Nothing is going to happen here in the castle, Peter," Lucy said. "And Susan says he sounds sorry for what he's done."

"He _sounds_ sorry," Edmund repeated. "That isn't the same as being."

"Edmund," said Susan reproachfully.

His face heated, but he knew better than any of them how to feign regret or ignore it until ignorance became impossible. He'd come perilously close to losing his family.

Anicetus _had_ lost his friend.

Red-faced, more quietly, Edmund said, "It's not the same as doing something about it." He looked at Peter. "We still don't know. We won't without questioning. Su wasn't hurt." He glanced at his older sister, suspiciously. "You would have said. Felix would have said." Edmund had no doubt the lynx would have jumped to the defense of his queen. "Although, we ought to have a word with him about leaving you alone."

Susan frowned. "Don't you dare, Edmund. I ordered him to wait outside. Don't hold that against him."

Considering the night guards had been sufficiently interfering to send Thornbut down to the Great Hall over a bit of nighttime wakefulness, Edmund still couldn't help feeling a bit resentful at this neglect. "He ought to have alerted someone, at least," he muttered. "If something had happened to you, he would have been responsible."

"Felix obeyed orders," agreed Peter reluctantly. "But it wasn't kind to put him in that position. His duty was to protect you."

Susan looked wounded at that accusation as she had at no other.

"That isn't fair!" said Lucy. "What if it was you who'd told him to wait? Or Edmund?"

Peter looked serious. "If I were heading into a situation that I knew was dangerous, I wouldn't go alone, and I'd say the same if it was any of you."

This might be true. Edmund had overheard (before remembering that he should not be listening and moving away) part of a stern conversation between Peter and the arms master in which Captain Dallin apologized profusely for letting Edmund out of his sight at the Marshwiggle's village. As for not going in alone - Peter probably _believed_ he wouldn't, but Edmund had seen evidence to the contrary. He shook his head. "Let's just go in and see what he has to say."

A low, whisker-y cough followed his words. Edmund, along with his siblings, turned to look at the door to the audience chamber. "Your Majesties," said Beaver.

Susan flushed slightly. "We're very sorry, Mr. Beaver. We're ready now." She looked at Peter expectantly.

Beaver nodded, poked his nose through the door and signaled to someone on the other side. Peter sighed but crossed to stand beside Susan and extended his elbow. She laid her hand on it. Edmund held out his own arm to Lucy, and they waited for the announcement.

"Their royal majesties, High King Peter, Queen Susan, King Edmund, and Queen Lucy."

They entered the Great Hall. They had to stand and wait for the bows and cheers before taking a seat - the girls first, at Peter's insistence, followed by Peter and Edmund. This morning's court was more subdued than dinner the previous evening. Everyone knew that there were serious matters at hand.

The first to be judged was not Anicetus, but one of Ulfson's werewolf lieutenants. The werewolf was not quite as unapologetic as his captain. He even offered to reveal the rebel's hideout in exchange for leniency.

"I was new to their company, your majesties, joined just last spring, and only under duress." In the form of a man, he looked weary and haunted. He wore no shoes, and a pale scar on his leg revealed where teeth had sunk deep into his calf once upon a time. He spoke with a guttural accent. "I was hunting in the wilds east of Telmar when a storm blew out of the north and scattered my party. After wandering for days, I discovered what was left of one of my companions - and the pack found me. I wounded one before they cornered me, and that impressed them. They told me that I could join them or become one of their victims. I was faint and injured, and I saw what they had done to him…"

"And you would rather be hunter than hunted," muttered Beaver disgustedly.

"No true Beast would prey on its own," growled Mahon. "Black magic."

The werewolf looked desperately from one to the other of the advisors, and then back to the dias. His eyes flickered over Peter and Edmund to settle pleadingly on the two queens. "It was wrong. I have no excuse, but all I could think was that I wanted to live. They took me to a cave to meet their leader and perform the ritual…" He shuddered violently from head to bare feet. "I was to help them restore their Mistress."

A troubled whisper went through the hall. Edmund did not look at his siblings, but he heard Susan's quick intake of breath, and the tension in Peter's voice. "Their Mistress?" the high king repeated quietly.

"She who they call the White Lady." The prisoner elaborated, although no one had doubted who he meant. "The true queen, so they claimed, though I don't mean so myself. Some said she was dead, but that she might be brought back. The hag that cast the ritual to transform me set some to gathering supplies for the rite to revive her. We were to clear her way to retake the throne."

"A kind way of describing murder and assassination!" said Mr. Beaver, slapping his tail against the floor. "Don't trust him, your majesties. He may claim to have been drafted after, but he was one of the Witch's, all right. He has her look in his eyes."

Everyone but Edmund seemed to know what this meant. Peter glanced his way before replying. "You're a true Beast, Beaver." He turned back to the prisoner. "If this is the rebel plan, and you want to make it right, we need to know the truth."

"Your majesty," begged the prisoner. "I swear!"

Edmund cleared his throat. "Peter," he said under his breath, then corrected himself considering the setting. "My king?" His brother nodded, and Edmund leaned forward in his throne. "Then tell us what you know," he said loudly enough for the prisoner to hear. His heart pounding at the gall, he asked, "Do you want to make a bargain or make amends?"

The werewolf looked taken aback. "Surely - your majesties value mercy. I am not so far gone that I cannot hope for it."

"Mercy is precious," said Peter. "But there is no mercy without justice and no justice without truth."

Edmund heaved a mental sigh of relief that his brother did not call his words out of line. He was uncomfortably grateful that he had told Peter about Maugrim the night before. Even Sir Wolfsbane had things he didn't want to know, but it made Edmund feel slightly less like an impostor in questioning the prisoner.

"All I said of how I joined them is true," protested the werewolf. "You know by your own eyes that I helped to raid the mud people's village." Edmund saw Peter frown at this term for the Marshwiggles. "I have committed crimes against your people, it is true, but I'm not truly a part of these rebels. All I want is to return home."

Sallowpad turned his head to fix the werewolf with one bright eye. "Will they have you?" he asked. "Those few who have wandered through the wild lands westward have little love for magic."

"If you can reverse the ritual," said the prisoner. "I do want to make amends, but I need to know you'll help me. I need to know I won't die a monster."

"Yes, of course," said Lucy. Edmund looked at her sharply, but she continued. "There is still a way to make it right by helping us, and we'll find out what we can about your ritual."

Edmund heard a faint, worried sigh from his elder sister. Susan leaned forward and touched Peter's sleeve. "Good my brother." Susan was always the best at sounding royal, but there was the faintest strain in her voice. "Perhaps we should adjourn for the time being to allow all parties to consider the next course."

Peter looked serious. "I agree, dear sister." He stood. "We will declare a recess until this afternoon." He offered Susan his arm, which she rose to take.

Edmund held his own arm out to Lucy. His youngest sister kept a mostly mild expression until they had all exited the audience chamber. Then she took her hand from Edmund's arm, placed it on her hip, and glared at Susan. "And I stood up for you!" She turned to include Peter and (unfairly, he thought) Edmund in her indignant gaze, and then stalked out of the antechamber in all her eight year old dignity.

 _That's the problem with little girls._ The thought crossed Edmund's mind before he stifled it quickly.

Susan sighed. "Peter," she said quietly, tilting her head. Nodding, Peter followed her down another corridor. Edmund was left alone with a muttering Beaver.

"Sir Mahon is seeing the prisoner back to the dungeon, your majesty," said Beaver when he noticed Edmund looking at him. "A lot of nerve trying to bargain after what he did."

Edmund nodded, but he was thinking of the werewolf's words - _All I could think was that I wanted to live_ \- and comparing them with Susan's description of Anicetus and Ulfson. How different were the cases? And how similar? "Beaver?" he asked.

"Yes, your majesty?" the Beast replied.

Edmund bit his lower lip. "What did you mean earlier? When you said he had her look in his eyes?"

Beaver's whiskers twitched, followed by his tail. "My father and grandfather told stories, and those of us that kept the word alive, we learned to tell. We had to learn to stay safe, to keep ahead of the secret police. Not all of them were so obvious as Maugrim, you know."

"Yes, I know," said Edmund quietly.

"Yes, well," said Beaver. "Not all who were in her pay had supped with her, even so, but the rumors were that everything she served was enchanted. Those who did eat at her table, well, they weren't themselves anymore. They were _hers_ , and they would do anything she ordered _._ It was the hunger in their eyes that gave them away."

Edmund remembered not the werewolf's pleading, or even the desperation on Anicetus's face as the faun knelt before Peter, but the silky taste of Turkish Delight. "Beaver," he asked, swallowing. "When you met me - did I have that look?"

There was a moment of awkward hesitation, but Beaver was a true Beast and too honest to evade. "You did, your Majesty."

Edmund only nodded. It was the answer he'd expected, after all. The next question was the truly important one. He searched the black eyes intently. "Is it still there?"

Beaver met Edmund's gaze, unhesitatingly blunt this time. "You've seen Aslan, your Majesty."

###

It was good to hear that it made a difference. Edmund _felt_ there was a difference, but he couldn't always be sure it was noticeable. However, if someone like Mr. Beaver, who had known him before and who did not have the stubborn bias of his siblings, thought that Edmund had improved, then perhaps Aslan might think the same one day.

Then again, the girls and Peter had all left him to conduct their own separate business while they were meant to be deliberating together, so perhaps his brother and sisters weren't so convinced of Edmund's reformation, after all. Peter had said it was 'all right.' Aslan had said only that it was the past. Edmund frowned so deeply at the carpeted stone floor of the corridor that he didn't become aware of the hushed argument until he heard his name.

"It worries me when he gets so bitter." That was Susan, using her fretting tone. Up ahead a thin stream of light crossed the corridor from the solar. The door was slightly ajar, but Edmund did not open it. Susan had claimed the sun-lit room quite early as the queens' domain, and even the high king only entered by invitation.

Apparently, Peter had received said invitation because his was the second voice, his working-out-a-problem voice. "I wonder if it might not be time, Su."

To be fair, Edmund knew he ought to walk on by. He shouldn't be eavesdropping, especially right after his conversation with Mr. Beaver, but they hadn't closed the door, and they were clearly discussing him…

"Peter!" This was Susan's how-could-you voice. "We agreed he oughtn't be told."

Peter demurred. "We agreed he wasn't ready to hear, not that he oughtn't ever."

Something - a chair, perhaps, scraped against the stone floor. "And you think he is now?" Susan demanded. "He's barely eating, hardly sleeping. How can you think it?"

Paulus and Brighteyes had been telling tales, Edmund thought with a hint of resentment.

"I think it might be out of our hands if we don't." That was Peter trying hard to be patient.

Susan did not answer immediately. There was a heavy, clothlike sound. "Has he brought it up?"

"No," said Peter. "Not that."

Edmund held his breath. It wasn't that he doubted Susan knew or had guessed, but his confession the previous night had been between brothers.

Susan, however, did not request details. "Then not now," she insisted, working herself into an almost Lucy-like passion. "He was nearly killed! He should be recovering not subjected to the whispers of traitors. I wish-" A pause, and then a sigh. "No, I don't wish you'd just executed them, but if Beaver is right, I hope you don't intend to offer a third chance after the second was squandered."

Edmund blinked at the door. This from the girl who had argued so for Anicetus that morning!

He was not the only one taken aback. "You're quite fierce today, Su."

There was an unhappy sigh. "I know I ought to forgive," said Susan. "And I do feel for his story, but if not for him and the rest, this would never even be a consideration, and I'd rather blame someone for it just now."

Seriously, Peter said, "Not _only_ for him."

"Perhaps not," conceded Susan. "But I'll be reasonable later, just not now."

Edmund squirmed. If not for the subject of the conversation, he would have been amused to hear the queen who had so neatly handled quarrelling dwarf clans last month speaking so petulantly. He really ought to have walked on by earlier.

"I don't know how long it can be kept quiet, Su," said Peter.

"Couldn't you oversee the remaining trials yourself?" asked Susan. "It isn't as if we haven't enough other work to do."

Peter objected. "And have it appear that I don't trust him? That would only make the rumors worse."

What rumors were those?

"No," said Susan heavily. "No, of course we can't. I see that. But he mustn't know, Peter-"

"King Edmund?"

Edmund almost jumped. His cheeks burned as he turned to see Rostam behind him. It really was unfair for the bull man to move so quietly about the stone castle. "General?"

The lamassu bobbed his head. Rostam did not comment on Edmund's presence in the corridor. "My aide Wilmot brought word from his mother of an envoy traveling north. Lady Pomona offered them hospitality, but they intended to press on for Cair Paravel. Some grave chance has befallen Archenland, I fear."

"They haven't said their trouble?" Edmund asked, starting to walk down the hall. Rostam walked beside him, hooves still making no sound on the carpeted stone. Having visited Archenland with Susan the previous spring, Edmund quite liked King Lune and Queen Avril. He hoped they were well.

"No, your majesty," said the general. "Which suggests a delicate matter."

Delicate, Edmund knew, usually meant secret, either because it was embarrassing or because it was dangerous. He frowned thoughtfully. "They'll probably want an audience as soon as they arrive, in that case, but Su - Queen Susan-" Edmund corrected himself. "Won't forgive us if we don't have rooms made up and supper hot when they arrive."

"Indeed," said the general. "Shall I consult with her majesty?" He turned his horned head to indicate the door of the solar now behind them.

"Yes," said Edmund. That sort of thing was certainly Susan's area of expertise. "No, wait." Rostam turned back with a questioning look.

The general was one of Peter's closest advisors, Edmund knew. He'd fought beside the high king when Ulfson and his crew were initially captured. If anyone knew what secret the others were keeping… "Speaking of delicate matters," Edmund said. "Before he died, Ulfson said something to me… about others taking my place… I understand there are rumors…" Rostam had also been in Aslan's camp when the Witch came to parlay. He'd been the first to defend Edmund from her demands.

Rostam shifted. Cair Paravel's corridors were wide and high-ceilinged to accommodate the many Narnian races, but the bull-man still took up quite a bit of space. "Forgive me, but I am not authorized to speak on that matter, your majesty."

Even after eavesdropping on his older siblings, the refusal was a bit startling. "I'm pretty sure I'm your king," Edmund pointed out. He squirmed inwardly just saying it. It sounded too much like something the old Edmund would have said - not to mention how ignoble it was to be caught listening at keyholes.

Rostam did not comment on either. "You are, my king," said the general patiently. He glanced back at the solar once more. 'Not authorized,' the lamassu had said.

Very well, Edmund would have to ask a higher authority.

###

There were really only three options, and his older siblings had made their positions clear in the conversation Edmund had overheard. Peter would not lie, but he would likely refuse to answer. Susan would evade with that horrible sympathetic look she used to give him sometimes after Dad left, but Lucy…

After trying the gardens, stables, and infirmary, Edmund found Lucy in the royal library. The archivist peered through his glasses when Edmund entered, as if suspecting him of trying to abscond with a priceless volume. Archimedes treated visitors to the library as grave threats to his precious books. When Edmund only made his way to his favorite study alcove, the archivist gave him one last suspicious-eyed glance, and then returned to cataloguing.

"You're finally here!" said Lucy before he could open his mouth. "I'm trying to find if there is a way to reverse the werewolf's curse, but I don't know half of these words."

Curious, despite his purpose, Edmund asked, "Did you find anything?"

"Not a hint. There's bits about the ritual, but it's awful, just from the pictures." Lucy turned a page to show an illustration of writhing man in the middle of a circle of wolves, then closed the book quickly. "See?"

Edmund grimaced. "Better not let Su see that. She's already prickly about this whole business. Anyway, that isn't why I wanted to talk to you."

"Think if we could find a way, though!" Lucy said. "All the people we could help!"

"If they want to be helped," said Edmund doubtfully. "That isn't a curse someone gets by accident. A lot of them might want to stay as they are."

Lucy, who tended to think better of people than Edmund did, frowned at this. "Perhaps if they thought they had a chance," she said. "It doesn't seem very enjoyable to be evil."

She had a point. "It isn't," admitted Edmund. "It's horrid, really."

Lucy opened her mouth in dismay. "I meant, well, the werewolves and Anicetus. They all seem so unhappy. And wouldn't they be much better if they knew they could change?" Lucy's hands twisted nervously in her lap. Edmund frowned at them. He'd seen that sort of fidgeting in Lucy before, when he talked her into sharing a couple of stolen tarts that Mum had been saving for a charity sale. Consciousness flamed in her cheeks, and her toes tapped at the rungs of her chair (her legs being still too short to reach the floor). "Are you all right?" she asked after a moment.

Immediately, Edmund suspected she knew very well what he was about. Susan had probably been talking to her, as well. "I know you _said_ you were all right, but you said you were all right after Beruna, too."

The good (and currently _convenient_ ) thing about his little sister was that she could never hold out long when she felt guilty. Lucy, Edmund rather thought, found it as difficult to be _bad_ as he found it to be _good_. He hoped her life never depended on a lie because she'd never be able to tell it. Fortunately, all Edmund wanted was for her to tell the truth. He gave her a little smile, not much of one, but more than he felt. That wasn't a lie, not really. It was just like Lucy would do: acting cheerful until it became reality. "I'm all right. And I _was_ all right after Beruna. You gave me your cordial, remember?"

Lucy shook her head. "Yes, but you and Peter never tell me everything that happens when you're fighting. And you _should_. I was _there_ at Beruna, remember? I healed people. I've seen what battles do. I've seen-" she stopped, red-faced and passionate.

Edmund's plans to pry the secret out of her vanished into contrition. He'd admitted his dreams about the battle to Peter who had fought and would understand the ugliness of it, if not the guilt (Peter carried the memory of every soul who fought under him, but _he_ had not been the one to bring the Witch's army to them), but he hadn't thought about how much the girls had seen of the aftermath. Lucy had seen people dying, had seen _him_ dying, and brought them back from the brink. She had seen those who were past bringing back. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't think about that."

"No one does," Lucy said. She thrust her fidgeting hands under her legs as if to keep them still. "I thought _you_ might, the way the older ones-"

"Hide things from me," he muttered darkly, and then winced at how sulky it sounded.

"-Try to protect you," she corrected. "Except Peter will still take you to fight, and he won't even bring me along with the healers."

He opened his mouth to argue, closed it to think, and then opened it again. Peter still tried to protect him, both from the werewolf and from - whatever it was Ulfson had planned to say. Susan had implied as much when he overheard them. He felt a chill, as if someone in the library had cracked one of the windows open. "Lu, what are they protecting me from? You _know_."

Her face screwed up with the effort of biting her tongue. "Peter and Susan-" she began.

"They think I can't handle it," said Edmund. "What do you think? I'm supposed to be a king, as much as the rest of you. How can I do that if no one will tell me anything?"

"You won't like it," said Lucy, but he could see the desire on her face to tell him. "Really, you won't."

Edmund rolled his eyes at this. "Do I have to guess until you tell me?" When his little sister remained silent, he frowned. "It's not that hard, you know. I'm not stupid. I'm not a weakling, either. I'm not going to curl up and weep because of what people say about me."

"It's not that, Ed," said Lucy.

"What then?" His face reddened, and his eyes sought the fringe on the carpet as he voiced his _other_ suspicions. "Do they think I'd be like _her_?" he asked thickly. "Hurting people because they said something I didn't like?" It was too close to what he _had_ been, to what he might still be if not for Aslan and his family.

Lucy jumped from her chair. Edmund looked up to see her mouth open in horror. "Of course not! Ed, no one thinks that. We all know you've changed. That's why Aslan made the bargain in the first place!" Immediately, her hands flew to her mouth, and her eyes widened further.

He seized the opening. "What bargain? With the Witch, you mean?"

Lucy's eyes turned pleading. She uncovered her mouth. "I _promised,_ Edmund."

Edmund kicked the leg of his chair. "Just say I forced you to tell me. It's true enough." She'd weakened that much, he wasn't going to let the subject go now. "What did Aslan promise? To stay away from the battle?" Bitterness thickened his tongue again. "She didn't know about the cordial, did she? She thought I'd be killed anyway, if he wasn't there. I should have been, and then the Deep Magic would be satisfied. It was only when I was dying that you all came back." And everyone who might have lived if the Lion had been there sooner...

" _No!"_ whispered Lucy. "Well, yes, but not - not like that. Aslan agreed to - to go to the Stone Table in your place."

Somewhere, some visitor to the library had thrust the window wide open. The draft cut through Edmund's clothes all the way down to his skin. Lucy looked at him fearfully, tears in her eyes. _No one will take your place this time, traitor._ The Stone Table where Jadis had demanded Edmund be executed because that was where such things had always been done. From which Aslan had moved the entire camp right after his parley with the Witch because it would be needed for other business. Where Peter had so _understandingly_ excused Edmund from riding out last spring… because he had known Aslan's blood would still stain the stone? But Aslan was _alive_...

"He knighted me," he said around the lump that had formed in his throat. "He crowned us. He brought back all the statues."

"He came back," Lucy whispered. She grabbed his hands. "That's the important thing, Ed. He came back."

 _There is always a price, but it is not always the expected one._

He _had_ come back. Aslan had been solidly, radiantly alive when he laid his paw on Edmund's shoulder and declared him _Sir_ Edmund. Alive in all his golden glory when he had enjoined the four to bear their commission well. "How?"

Lucy's hands tightened around his own. She hesitated before answering. "He said - he was innocent. The Deeper Magic saved him, he said."

As if nothing could make his shame worse. "It wouldn't have saved me," Edmund said quietly.

"But it _did_ , Edmund," said Lucy, urgently. " _He_ did. The Table is broken, you know. Aslan said it won't be used again."

"Did he even know?" Edmund asked, although the question was not for Lucy. "That he'd come back?"

She answered anyway. "He said it hadn't been tested."

Silently, he absorbed that. He couldn't ask any more questions. Lucy stayed at his side, fluttering as nervously as when he'd first broached the subject. The fidgeting was almost unbearable now, but Edmund didn't tell her to go. The solitude would have been worse.

"There you are!" Peter's voice preceded him into the alcove. Out of the corner of his eye, Edmund saw Lucy look up, but he couldn't bring himself to face his brother. "I thought I might find Ed here, but not both of you. Su's going to have a conniption if we're late for the ambassador from Archenland…" His voice trailed off. Peter could be a little thick on occasion, but he wasn't stupid. "What's going on?"

Lucy looked between them, and then burst into tears. "I'm sorry, Peter!" she said between sobs. "I know I promised, but-"

Bother that! "It's not your fault!" Edmund said, more sharply than he meant. He glared at Peter, seizing on the old familiarity of argument. He'd never be able to look up otherwise. "Were you ever going to tell me?" he demanded.

Peter gaped between them. "Lu?" he finally asked.

"Let Lucy be," Edmund interrupted. "I badgered her into it. Someone was going to tell me, and you can't very well stab everyone before they do."

Peter stilled. "This is about what Ulfson said," he said quietly.

Edmund crossed his arms, expectantly. "How long have you known?" he demanded. "Who else knows?"

Peter removed the golden crown from his head and ran a hand through his hair. He looked more lost than angry. The expression frightened Edmund. He'd never again believe Lucy would lie, but his little sister's assertions still could not hold the weight of his older brother's confirmation. "Lucy," Peter began. He trailed off and then started again. "It's all right. It'll be all right. Go find Su. She's in the small dining hall."

She hovered near them for a moment, but Lucy was always one to do as she was told. She headed away, then turned back to startle Edmund with a hug. "Love you." She hugged Peter as well, and then left the library.

There was silence. Finally, Peter said, "It was my decision." Edmund didn't reply. The lump in his throat choked him. After a moment, his brother continued. "He didn't tell any of us what he meant to do. The girls only learned by following him. They couldn't agree on whether to tell you, so they asked me. I said we shouldn't."

That was Peter, always taking responsibility for everyone, even when he hadn't done a thing. He'd even tried to apologize for driving Edmund to the Witch, the night before Beruna, as if Peter had somehow _forced_ Edmund to betray them all. Edmund had called him an idiot for it, but his brother's concern had warmed him, as Aslan's breath had warmed him.

"He almost told me," said Edmund in a small voice. Not so clearly perhaps, but… "I thought he meant something else."

Peter sat down in the chair Lucy had vacated. His feet had no trouble touching the floor. Edmund looked at them and remembered his little sister's impassioned case for not being kept in the dark about the horrors of war. Because she'd _seen_.

"They followed him?" he repeated. He hadn't put it together immediately, but the girls had disappeared with Aslan before the battle and returned with Him and the restored Narnians at its height. "They _saw_."

Peter hesitated, but while his brother might withhold information, he wouldn't tell a falsehood. "Yes."

"And Ulfson," said Edmund choppily. "He was there. He saw." How many had seen and knew? Edmund thought _she_ would have wanted an audience. He felt suddenly nauseous as if he'd woken from a particularly bad dream and found it wasn't a dream. "I-"

Peter must have seen the change in his face. "You don't have to attend the audience. I'll give your regrets to the ambassador."

Edmund shook his head. "No. I should-" He'd promised Aslan he'd do his best, and after all Aslan had done for him...

After _all_ Aslan had done for him…

The lump in his throat drew perilously close to emerging.

"Go and rest." This time the words had the firm ring of command. Peter replaced his crown and stood. He laid a hand on Edmund's shoulder. "It'll be all right. I'll see to the ambassador."

Rest. He couldn't possibly. "I'm not tired." He hated to resort to the words, but, "Please, Peter," he choked out. Facing the court - _how_ many knew? - was a fearsome prospect, but it was preferable to being alone with his thoughts.

An odd expression crossed his brother's face. Peter was usually almost as easy to read as Lucy, but Edmund could only guess at what he was thinking now. "If it's too much," he began.

"I'll signal you," Edmund said, grasping at the hesitation. "Please. I can do this."

After a moment, Peter nodded. "All right."

#


End file.
